


Exit, pursued by a dragon

by malfaisant



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:19:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lady Kiyomizu is a big fan of Shakespeare, and also, alcohol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exit, pursued by a dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corvile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvile/gifts).



In recent years, the city of London had undergone something of a transformation. Whereas before, the most often one would see a dragon were couriers flitting in and out of the city’s solitary covert, nowadays you could hardly throw a stone without hitting a beast square on the nose, or so griped some of the city’s more disaffected citizens.

This was an exaggeration, of course, as disaffected citizens were so often prone to. There were more dragons flying through London’s skies after the war, but nowhere near the level of Peking, or even Paris. Most of their activities were still confined to the area surrounding the newly refurbished covert, or at the outskirts of the city where pavilions had been built in recent years. Regardless, these aforementioned citizens would still rather like to complain about it, and would probably do so much more loudly and in more official capacities if the prospect did not involve addressing their grievances to a twenty-ton Celestial dragon.

For most, their troubles ended at having to acquire perfumed horse blinders, and so they moved on. Others found an outlet for their umbrage in writing passionate (if anonymous) editorials to one of the city’s myriad newspapers. On the whole, most of the truly unhappy (as opposed to the merely disgruntled) found it a much simpler and far less intimidating option to just move out of London altogether, an arrangement that suited all affected parties well enough.

Yet, for all the changes that the city had undergone, actually seeing dragons on the street walking alongside you was still a rather rare phenomena, owing to the fact that London’s narrow, winding streets were too small to accommodate all but the smallest of the English breeds.

So perhaps, Laurence thought, he should be less surprised at the openly gawking stares Lady Kiyomizu was drawing as she walked down the Strand. Her lithe, serpentine body easily navigated roads, lanes and alleys, and her flat, wide head stood just above the height of a taller gentleman, but what she lacked in bulk she more than made up for in length, cutting through the teeming crowds like a long, dark-green river, undulating like the very waters she was deified after.

Indeed, Laurence briefly considered the possibility that he was being somewhat unfair. Even at the covert where she had first been received, the aviators could not help but steal awed glances at the Sui-Ryu _,_ the twilight years of the war having made the water-spitting breed notorious in the West. Already tall tales from fierce battles at sea only grew taller in the telling, until nearly everyone was certain they had seen them summon gales and thunderstorms; Laurence knew better than most just how truly fearsome they could be. But after several muffled shrieks and a maiden fainting in hysterics, this was the limit of good will that Laurence could muster for his fellow countrymen. In fact he rather felt, as a group of gentlemen scrambled out of their path and in their haste fell into an undignified heap, that it could possibly be more than they deserved.

Only some few years before Laurence might have been entirely understanding of all the commotion, but now it was difficult to feel anything other than irritation, at the slow pace at which English attitudes towards dragons were advancing. Surely three years was a reasonably long enough period to acclimate, or at the very least acclimate well enough to repress such open incivilities.

Thankfully, Kiyomizu was too engrossed in examining their surroundings to take offense at these displays. She strolled along, claws clicking happily on the cobblestones. She paused occasionally to peer through shop windows and storefronts, and at one point even stood on her hind legs, drawing up in height to look into the ornately gilded second-story balconies of Northumberland House. Her demeanor reminded Laurence not a little of Temeraire back when he was a dragonet, stopping at every curiosity, though she was a dragon more than half a century old.

“But you would think,” Laurence said, “that with Temeraire flying in and out of Westminster nearly every week, they should’ve already grown tired of such behaviours.”

Tharkay quirked his lips, not quite a smile. It was his typical expression for when he was very clearly laughing at you, and also very clearly aware of the fact that you knew he was laughing at you and you ought be grateful he was not doing so out loud. Laurence had been entrusted as Kiyomizu’s guide through London, what with their previous acquaintance, but he had swayed Tharkay at the last minute into accompanying him and the excitable dragon. They walked alongside each other at Kiyomizu's shoulder, dressed simply in their black leather flying coats, those being far less conspicuous than their usual aviator green.

“The fact that London is only uneasy instead of consumed in widespread panic is improvement enough,” said Tharkay. “Though I wouldn’t be surprised that some of them are so graciously giving us such wide berth to avoid your wrath, as opposed to hers," he added thoughtfully.

Laurence blushed, and quickly attempted to school his expression to something less stormy-faced.

“Oh, these stone buildings are so grand, so very grand indeed!” Kiyomizu exclaimed in Chinese, stopping at the front of a building bedecked with Corinthian columns, the small stubby wings on her back flapping excitedly. “Even the Western quarters in Nagasaki did not look so foreign. Pray, what is the function of this building?”

Still somewhat distracted at the outrageousness of her reception, and his ear for Chinese being somewhat out of practice, Laurence did not immediately register the query. Tharkay came to his rescue instead, putting a firm hand on his elbow, and turning to the great river dragon, said, “That is the English Opera House, Lady Kiyomizu, built only in the previous year.”

“Opera?” she asked, tilting her head at Tharkay.

“A type of theatre,” Tharkay replied. “A play told entirely through song and music.”

Kiyomizu practically swelled at his answer, chest puffing out, eyes gleaming, as though she’d absorbed a great volume of water. “Theatre! Oh, let us see some performance at once!” she said, and twisted around so as to peer directly at Laurence’s face. “Will they be playing some of your Shakespeare?”

*

The Japanese Mission arrived earlier that week, a formidable embassy of thirty-some ambassadors, ministers, scholars and students, as well as a small retinue of dragons. As part of the welcoming committee, Laurence had been surprised to hear his name called aloud from amidst the throng. As was later explained to him, Junichiro had recommended Lady Kiyomizu to the Bakufu to be part of the diplomatic party to the West, and she was found to be impossible to dissuade from the course once she had learned of it.

After some argument (along with some heavy brandishing of his status as the plenipotentiary ambassador to China), Arthur Hammond arranged a performance of _Cosi fan tutte_ at the Lyceum for the entire Japanese delegation that following evening. The invitation was extended to the officers of the Corps currently present in London and some of the more liberal voices of Parliament, to Laurence's further skepticism.

Laurence and Tharkay entered the theatre hall together, trailing after Kiyomizu. The upper balcony was cleared to make space for Kiyomizu, along with three other Japanese dragons in attendance. They seated themselves like neat piles of coiled rope, their blue and green scales iridescent against the theatre gaslights. A translator sat at the head of them, kneeling on the floor with her legs folded beneath her, hands resting delicately on her lap.

“I suppose I must thank Hammond for this,” said Laurence in an undertone, as the show was about to begin. “I have missed the opera.”

“Indeed, and I hope that you will enjoy yourself despite that half the audience will be watching _our_ performance just as closely, if not more-so,” Tharkay replied. Laurence frowned, but was saved from having to reply by the onset of the overture.

The performance was splendid, even if the singers were at times distracted by their audience of dragons peering intently at them from above. As Tharkay had conjectured, members of the audience stole what they must have thought were surreptitious glances behind them, which Laurence found far more indefensible.

“Opera quite reminds me of Noh, though it is much shorter than I expected,” Kiyomizu later confided with Laurence as they exited the theatre, after the nearly four-hour long performance. “I would quite like to see another!”

Laurence smiled, or at least endeavoured to. It came out more as a grimace.

Beside him, Tharkay replied, with suspect cheerfulness, “Captain Laurence would be delighted, Lady Kiyomizu. After all, that was quite a wonderful performance, in my admittedly amateur opinion.”

“How wonderful that you’ve so lately discovered an enthusiasm for the theatre, Tenzing,” said Laurence dryly.

“My dear Will,” said Tharkay, as he took Laurence’s arm in his, “if every performance had a gallery which worried the audience member behind them might choose to eat someone as refreshment during intermission, I would gladly purchase us a box for the season.”

*

“Oh, but that sounds so splendid, Laurence,” Temeraire said, upon hearing his captain’s account of the performance back at the London covert. “Surely you may buy us tickets to attend the next show together. I think Perscitia would enjoy it too.”

“Oh my,” said Laurence, as he quickly thought of how best to explain that matters of logistics rendered the request quite impossible.

“Though I think Iskierka need not attend," Temeraire added hastily. "She would not appreciate it very much anyway.”

“Even if you somehow contrived to fit through the entranceways of the opera house, you would fill up the whole of the theatre just by yourself,” said Tharkay.

Temeraire turned to him dejectedly, and laid his head flat on the ground. “It is not _my_ fault that everything in London is built so small.”

“Perhaps an alternative arrangement could be found…?” Laurence asked tentatively, and as Temeraire’s eyes went wide, his ruff raised, knew he was already committed to the task.

The next day, Laurence inquired about the city, and was eventually given the name of a small theatre on Drury Lane. The enterprising manager told him the company would be glad to put on Shakespeare for His Majesty’s Aerial Corps, shaking his hand with great enthusiasm; Laurence would later discover that he had a sister in the service, the captain of a Xenica stationed at Falmouth.

They agreed upon a venue, one of the public pavilions built on the south bank of the Thames, commissioned by Temeraire himself upon their return to England. It was a modest structure, all things considered, with not much in the way of architectural embellishment, but with the players in their costume, the braziers alight, and strings of lanterns hanging from the rafters, the place looked as a festival, if with a rather scalier crowd than the norm.

Among the dragons in attendance were Temeraire’s old formation, most of whom were piled on top of Maximus and Kulingile. Arkady was off to the side, surrounded by a brood of excitable dragonets, recent progeny of the Turkestan ferals. Meanwhile, Perscitia was perched on Temeraire’s back, involved in some argument about the finer points of iambic pentameter. Laurence was comfortably sat on his foreleg, and to the front of them, Tharkay sat beside Kiyomizu, to translate the show as it proceeded.

So it was, that the actors performed _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ to a rapt audience of aviators and twenty or so dragons, with the latter providing a running commentary _sotto voce_ , or at least for a certain definition of the term, as best as could be managed by creatures of their size. The actors were professional enough to ignore the myriad distractions thrown their way, though some distractions were more difficult than others. The actors on stage fought back their smiles when Iskierka whispered, quite loudly, “But they are all so very stupid. Are humans really this silly when they are in love?”

The show concluded to enthusiastic applause. Kiyomizu sent for her human attendants and gave a series of instructions in rapid-fire Japanese. They left, quickly returning with massive ceramic gourds, each about the height and width of a man and filled to the brim with strong sake. To the dragons they gave saucer-like cups the size of dinner plates, and smaller bottles and cups to the humans.

Kiyomizu raised a toast, speaking in heavily accented English, “To actors, to opera, to London, Japan, and Shakespeare!”

The atmosphere was celebratory, with drinks poured out for dragons and humans alike. After some cajoling from Kiyomizu and their own dragons, some of the aviators took to the stage and performed some of their favorite bits of Shakespeare, heartened by drink and merriment, though as the night went on and the alcohol flowed freely, to increasingly varying degrees of success.

Berkley recited one of Gloucester’s monologues, with uproarious heckling from his fellow aviators, and Maximus correcting his lines from the side. Chenery, Harcourt and Granby followed on after him and led everyone in merry, drunken song, though they eventually had to be helped off by Little and Laurence after they nearly tipped off the makeshift proscenium. In one corner of the hall, Emily and Demane carried out an arm wrestling contest, cheered on by Kulingile and Temeraire’s crews.

The celebration began to taper off around midnight, as the English dragons, unused to drink, grew sleepy and heavy-lidded. Some flew off to the city’s main covert, slightly tilting to one side, while others simply slunk off towards the more peaceful areas of the pavilion; the same went for their crews, who went home in batches, arm in arm. Some dragons dozed off where they were, including Iskierka, who slept in a pile of dragonets, all of whom had nodded off after their first dragon-sized saucerful of sake.

Soon it was just a smaller group, mostly the captains, who remained with Kiyomizu, as energetic and bottomless as Laurence remembered.

Chenery engaged Kiyomizu in a drinking contest, even as Warren shouted “No!” and attempted to cover his mouth to cut off the invitation. Red-faced and determined, Granby roped in the rest of them into participating, yelling, “Come on gents! We have to show Lady Kiyomizu some English hospitality!”

“I am almost entirely certain this is a terrible idea,” Laurence said, as he put away another drink. Granby and Chenery were now singing a loud, bawdy song that Laurence refused to translate, even at Kiyomizu’s imploring request.

Beside him, Tharkay downed his own cup, and replied, “John will be asleep in three more drinks. We must persevere.”

“Oh, it is still quite early in the night, but you have proven you Englishmen can hold your liquor,” commented Kiyomizu sometime later, serenely drinking from her saucer. Most of their company was largely indisposed at this point: Temeraire kept up through the first round, but was soundly asleep within the next half-hour; Immortalis and Dulcia, being older, were able to pace themselves better. Catherine rested on Lily’s foreleg, while Granby was fast asleep on Little’s shoulder.

Tharkay sat next to Laurence, and even he was visibly affected, chin resting on one hand, though the hand holding his cup was still steady.

“Why don’t we recite more poetry?” Kiyomizu asked their remaining company in English.

Chenery, who was half-bent over his dragon, gave a small groan.

Laurence blinked at Kiyomizu, face warm and head cloudy with drink. “I beg your pardon, Lady Kiyo,” he said in a deliberate voice, trying his utmost not to slur his words, “but even if I’ve not already exhausted the limits of my Shakespeare, I fear I would only do his words a disservice.”

Kiyomizu pouted, and Laurence wondered how intoxicated he must be that he had characterised a dragon’s expression as pouting. He wracked his brains for any of the other poets in his repertoire, but before he could reply, Tharkay spoke up unexpectedly, saying, “If your ladyship would not object, I am tolerably familiar with some of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

Kiyomizu nodded contentedly, and Tharkay stood up from his seat, carefully setting his cup on the ground before he did so. Against the light of the lanterns, Laurence could see the colour high on his cheeks, the blush apparent even on his dark brown skin. He cleared his throat, and began to speak in a clear voice:

“ _Let those who are in favor with their stars, of public honor and proud titles boast. Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, unlooked for joy in that I honor most…_ ”

Tharkay’s eyes were closed as he concentrated upon the sonnet, throughout the entirety of which Laurence was utterly captivated. Still, he attempted to translate the sonnet to Kiyomizu as best he could, even if at times he became lost in the melody and cadence of Tharkay’s voice.

“... _Then happy I that love and am beloved, where I may not remove nor be removed,_ ” Tharkay finished, and for a moment, Laurence felt his breath catch.

Kiyomizu tapped her claw approvingly on the marble floor, while Warren and Little, the only others yet awake, clapped quietly. “So the speaker does not care for his own fortunes, as his happiness is secure in the love of another?” she asked Laurence.

Laurence nodded. “The measure of his happiness is less mercurial, than those who seek it in wealth or recognition.”

“But does it not still depend upon the vagaries of another’s affection?”

To this, Tharkay was the one who answered. “The poet believes himself the most truly prized by fortune, for he is sincerely loved, by one whose regard can neither be changed nor taken.”

“Ah, wonderful, truly wonderful,” Kiyomizu said, with a longing sigh. “Do you know any more?”

“Sonnets, my lady?”

“Love. More poems about love, that grandest of affections!”

Tharkay raised a hand to his mouth, engaged in quiet contemplation. “The Bard was quite preoccupied with the subject. I believe I can manage another, one of his later ones,” he said.

He then squared up his shoulders, and spoke, “ _If the dull substance of my flesh were thought…_ ”

The speaker spoke of space and distance, despairing of his earthly form that should so conspire to keep him from his lover. Tharkay’s voice danced through the words, a smooth, continuous rhythm, euphonious, arresting.

“— _For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, as soon as think the place where he would be—”_

The sonnet was a lamentation, Laurence realised, focusing deeply on the words. He felt warmer than the alcohol should account for, his heart suddenly beating quite fast. The poet was speaking of longing, a strange yet somehow familiar friend.

Tharkay finished the sonnet. He paused after, letting out the softest exhalation of breath before he opened his eyes, as though to compose himself. The moment passed, and he turned to Kiyomizu, his expression blank.

“I will ask for another, if you would be so kind,” said Kiyomizu. Her eyes twinkled with unreadable curiosity.

Tharkay answered, evenly, “I can attempt a final one, my Lady, but after which I’m afraid I must withdraw.”

Kiyomizu accepted this with a gracious bow of her head, and Tharkay began to recite once more:

 _"But do thy worst to steal thyself away,_  
_For term of life thou art assured mine;_  
_And life no longer than thy love will stay,_  
_For it depends upon that love of thine._  
_Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,_  
_When in the least of them my life hath end._  
_I see a better state to me belongs_  
_Than that which on thy humour doth depend;_  
_Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,_  
_Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie…”_

From the very first line, some change in Tharkay’s voice—more raw somehow, almost vulnerable, a tinge of some unknown emotion that hadn’t been there before—had quite transfixed Laurence’s attention, and he neglected to translate any of the words. Was it the influence of drink? Was Tharkay’s voice rougher from having recited the two previous sonnets? Was it all simply Laurence’s imagination, that he thought he could see a mask slip…?

Yet Kiyomizu did not press him to explain anything. Perhaps, the words needed no translation, their meaning evident from the manner in which they were delivered. There was again that growing ache in Laurence's chest, as though each word endeavoured to carve out a hollow space in which to occupy.

“ _O, what a happy title do I find_ ; _happy to have thy love, happy to die._ ”

The sonnet finished and was received by subdued applause, with Kiyomizu regarding Tharkay with somber thoughtfulness. The clapping stopped, and then there was Granby’s grumbling voice, suddenly overloud in the following silence.

“—and six years they’ve been doing this, Augustine!” Granby said, half-slurring the words. Laurence turned to look at them; he had not realised Granby was even still awake.

“John,” Little said forcefully. “Maybe you should go back to sleep.”

Granby continued, as though he had not been interrupted, “Six years! If they wait any longer, they will surely drive everyone mad—“

Little clapped a hand over Granby’s mouth, muffling the rest of his tirade, and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Excuse us, gentlemen, but I do believe it is time for us to retire,” he directed at Laurence, before standing up and pulling Granby with him, against his weak protestations.

Laurence stared after them, eyes wide with surprise and bewilderment. He turned to where Tharkay stood near him, or rather, the empty space where Tharkay had previously been standing near him. He looked around their circle, and asked, “What on earth just happened?”

“Your companion made for the south exit,” Kiyomizu replied, gesturing with her tail.

“Tenzing _left_?”

“It is just as the Lady Murasaki wrote, that the longing heart will best its owner at last, swear as he might to never show his love,” Kiyomizu said, and took a sip of her drink. Then she turned to Laurence, her head tilting in confusion.

“But my dear Englishman, whatever are you still doing here? Quickly, now.”

*

Laurence ran in the direction that Kiyomizu had given him, and soon found Tharkay in a shadowy corner of the pavilion’s outer hall. He slowed, as to not give away his presence, and treaded softly to where Tharkay was attempting to coax Arkady out of slumber.

Arkady regarded Tharkay with heavy-lidded eyes and murmured something sleepily in Durzagh, before hiding his face in his forelegs even as Tharkay pulled uselessly at his harness.

“Listen, you useless oaf of a creature—”

“Tenzing.”

Tharkay froze in place, before slowly turning around to face him. “Will,” he said. “It is late, I thought I should—” he stopped, before he stared up at Laurence miserably.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. They both startled, then, when Arkady rose to his feet, and said something sharply to Tharkay in Durzagh. Tharkay replied back, his tone caustic, the rough, guttural sounds all the much harsher for it. They argued for a bit, with the dragon affecting an air of what Laurence thought was exasperation, before flapping his wings annoyedly and marching off towards the main hall in an irritated huff.

Tharkay glared after the retreating dragon, before speaking to Laurence once more in clipped tones. “How can I assist you, Will?

“Where did you become so familiar with Shakespeare’s sonnets?” asked Laurence, surprising both of them with the question. It had not been the one he meant to ask.

Tharkay blinked, and looked down at his feet, carefully avoiding his eyes. Even in the dark, Laurence could still discern the tinge of red upon his face.

“My father was adamant that I should know my literature well, and despite my best efforts a university education is not so easily forgotten,” he said.

Laurence floundered, a ship without anchor. “Are they—what John said—”

“I do not pretend to know what Granby’s drunken ramblings mean.”

“But I think I do,” said Laurence, “and I wished to ask if I might be right.”

“S—Sara loved poetry,” said Tharkay, as distressed as Laurence had ever seen him. “I used to recite them for her, back when—”

“I do not think they were meant for Miss Maden.”

Silence followed his words. Tharkay took a small step back, his hands curled tightly into fists. Several moments passed, before he cleared his throat and answered in a hoarse voice.

“They were not. They have not been for quite some time.”

“Six years, possibly?”

“I do not know for certain,” Tharkay said, his mouth curling bitterly. “Likely some equally pitiful period of time, I suppose. I might have loved you since Australia. I might have loved you since Istanbul. I do not know, Will.”

 _I do not know either_ , thought Laurence, his heart now pounding painfully in his chest. How was it possible to have loved someone for so long and yet remain so oblivious to it—

“I am the most wretched creature,” Laurence said absently.

“I apologise for any distress I have caused,” Tharkay said in a toneless voice. ”It is the drink, I am afraid I do not have quite the regular measure of restraint,” and made to leave, but Laurence grabbed his wrist before he could walk away.

“No, Tenzing, I do not mean—please do not be so cruel as to blame your affection on drink,” said Laurence desperately. “I do not think I can bear it—”

Tharkay pulled Laurence forward, grabbing roughly at the lapels of his coat, and kissed him, cutting off his pleas.

Tharkay kissed him, and Laurence shivered, despite that every part of him felt too warm, too heated. Tharkay made a sound in his throat, a low moan that shot through Laurence, more intoxicating than any drink. Laurence cupped his face, adjusting the press of their mouths, but somehow it was not enough, he could not be close enough—

_If the dull substance of my flesh were thought—_

As though of their own accord, Laurence’s hands came up to the back of Tharkay’s neck to pull him forward, deepening the kiss. Tharkay’s mouth opened with a soft sigh, and Laurence tasted the liquor on his tongue, equal parts sweetness and bitterness; he wondered what he would taste without the alcohol. He wondered if he would have the chance to find out.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily, faces flushed bright.

There was a longer pause, and then: “As I said, I do not have the measure of restraint,” said Tharkay weakly.

“I’m afraid I cannot bring myself to be ungrateful for it.”

“Stop at once. We are both of us already likely to get hanged, after this shameless display.”

Laurence grinned widely, and pulled Tharkay in a close embrace. “I would say it is the drink, but there is no drink strong enough to compare,” he said giddily, and kissed him again. Happiness coursed through him, overflowing; he felt full yet weightless, as though he was wholly filled with sunlight.

“I did not quite expect,” Tharkay said against his mouth, eyes closed, “that I would woo you so successfully with Shakespeare. I mean, _sonnets_ , Will.”

“Can you blame me?” Laurence asked, and did not wait for Tharkay’s answer. ”But do thy worst to steal thyself away,” he recited in a breathless whisper, as he twined their fingers together, “for term of life thou art assured mine.”

“And life no longer than thy love will stay, for it depends upon that love of thine,” Tharkay recited back at him, before he pulled away and laughed, shaking his head. “It is a morbid little love poem, you realise?”

“All the more reason to compose our own, then,” Laurence said, and Tharkay smiled. Poetry were merely words, and could never convey in its entirety the truest depth of feeling. And so, Laurence thought, as he kissed Tharkay again, softer and softer, they will supplement the words with action, and with every touch and caress, express what the sonnets could not.

**Author's Note:**

> my gift entry to the Temeraire Exchange, for **corvine**. I took bits and pieces from a number of your prompts, but especially focused on the obliviousness, pining, and being incredibly, annoyingly obvious to everyone. my sincerest thanks to captainshellhead and vibraniumstark for the beta and encouragement, and my sincerest apologies to any Shakespeare fans. I hope you like it!
> 
> the sonnets, in order of appearance, are #25, #44 and #92.
> 
> (history fun-fact: I based the premise of Lady Kiyomizu's visit on the real-life Iwakura Mission, though of course that happened a whole half-century later, and did not involve dragons.)


End file.
